


let's talk about love

by owilde



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternative Universe - 80's, Fluff, Getting Together, Historical References, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, ish, look my research was limited but i did do it, very self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 04:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14804591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: Their first meeting is pure happenstance – a windy park in October, nosy strangers and a boombox that satellites more than just music.Everything that came after that was no happenstance at all.(Or, a year in their life, and all that it entails.)





	let's talk about love

**Author's Note:**

> i felt like doing another 80's AU and shyan fell prey this time. oops. also this was supposed to be like 3k... yeah, that worked out well dgfhg. also title is from modern talking's song by the same name
> 
> list of the songs from the subheadings, in case someone is interested:
>
>> Survivor - American Heartbeat (1982)  
> The Psychedelic Furs - Love My Way (1982)  
> Cutting Crew - (I Just) Died In Your Arms Tonight (1986)  
> Michael Sembello - Maniac (1983)  
> Modern English - I Melt With You (1982)  
> Thompson Twins - Hold Me Now (1984)  
> Nik Kershaw - The Riddle (1984)  
> a-ha - The Sun Always Shines On T.V (1985)  
> King - Love & Pride (1984)  
> Foreigner - I've Been Waiting For A Girl Like You (1981)  
> Survivor - The Search Is Over (1984)  
> The Cars - Drive (1984)

**“American Heartbeat” – or, October, 1983**

 

“Hey,” a voice called out from somewhere nearby, nearby enough that Ryan let his eyes flicker open despite the fact that he’d been about to fall asleep. The early evening sky stared back at him; the sun had disappeared behind white, thinly stretched clouds, painted against pale blue.

As Ryan pushed himself upwards, leaning his forearms against the grass, a gust of wind picked up and blew some brown and red leaves past him. He glanced behind him, and found a man staring at him from a small distance away.

“Hey,” Ryan called out. He had to crane his neck to see the stranger. “What’s up?”

The man was sitting cross-legged and slouched awkwardly with his arms crossing each other and his hands holding his knees in place. His shoes were discarded next to him, neat black leather boots that no sane person would’ve worn in California in October. His bright yellow socks peeked out from underneath his legs.

“Your boombox,” the man said, nodding his head towards it. “It’s new, right?”

Ryan eyed him skeptically. “Yeah,” he drawled. “What’s it to you?”

The man untangled his limbs and stood up, picking his boots up and walking the few steps necessary to stand next to Ryan. He dropped down again, the boombox lying between them.

“It’s cool,” he said. There wasn’t an ounce of defensiveness in his tone. “What d’you have on that mixtape? Do you have like, a list or something?”

Ryan sat up properly, rolling his shoulders to get rid of the tension. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got two with me right now. I don’t think they’re anything you’d like, though, so—”

The man shot him an amused look. “You don’t know anything about me,” he said. “How would you know what I like or don’t?”

They eyed each other. The man’s hair was sleeked up with gel, which looked unnecessarily decent on him, with some strands falling on his forehead. Ryan’s eyes wandered over his denim jacket and slightly ripped white tee, to his ill-fitting blue jeans and the goddamn yellow socks. Upon closer inspection, the socks had little bees on them.

Ryan forced his gaze back to somewhere around the bridge of the man’s nose. “In my experience,” he said, “most people don’t really care for my taste in music.”

The man shrugged. “I’m not most people,” he said. “And I don’t mean that in an asshole kind of way, like, _I’m not like the others_ – although, I find often that I’m not. Let me take a look, and if I hate all of it I’ll tell you so.”

Ryan knew people like him – stubborn, adamant people. He knew intimately what they were like, because he was one of them. It didn’t take a genius to realize that this was a losing battle.

“Fine,” he said, and turned to his bag to rummage it for the other tape. He handed it over to the man. “It’s got a list of the songs on the paper wrapped around it. Ten on one side, eight on the other. Could’ve fit a few more, but they didn’t fit my theme.”

“Thanks,” the man said, taking the tape and unwrapping the concept paper. He smoothened it out against his leg and placed the tape gingerly on top of the boombox for the time being, like it was made of porcelain. “I’m Shane, by the way. Madej.”

“Ryan Bergara,” Ryan said. He ripped bits of grass from the ground and fiddled nervously with them, his eyes trained on Shane. “So, you’re from around Glendale?”

Shane hummed noncommittally, reading the tape list. He flipped the paper around and scanned the B side, before glancing up at Ryan with a small smile. “Glendale, yeah.” He waved the paper gently. “This is a rad mix. I don’t know what you were on about.”

Ryan couldn’t help the automatic frown on his face. “Really?” He took the list and the tape back from Shane, and scanned the titles, ranging from _Heartbreaker_ (Dionne Warwick, not Pat Benatar, he’d been specific about it) to _I Melt With You_. He cleared his throat. “They’re not too, I don’t know – generic?”

Shane shrugged. “No. I particularly enjoyed the inclusion of Somewhere in America. Not a lot of Survivor fans in my friend circle, it’s a shame. Bitchin’ band.”

“They’re dope,” Ryan agreed, keeping his eyes on the tape. He smiled a little. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t think it sucked ass—”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Shane interrupted, loudly. He moved to turn the volume up on the boombox before Ryan could so much as lift a finger to stop him. “Holy shit, you recorded American Heartbeat?”

“Uh,” Ryan managed. He was caught up staring at Shane’s hands, and his nails, which he hadn’t noticed before, were painted purple. “Uh, I mean, yeah, like you said, Survivor’s great—”

“You don’t understand,” Shane said slowly, sounding like he was high on something. He’d closed his eyes, and he was swaying to the beat of the music. “This is the greatest fucking song I’ve ever heard.”

It wasn’t the weirdest thing Ryan had ever heard. He’d heard lots of weird opinions and thoughts, and he’d had lots of weird opinions and thoughts himself, but. He’d never met someone who’s favorite song in the whole entire world was American Heartbeat. Not that it wasn’t a good song, otherwise it wouldn’t have been on his tape, but – the greatest fucking song ever?

“Really?” He said aloud. “ _This_ tops some of the greatest musical masterpieces, like, I don’t know, Bohemian Rhapsody?”

Shane opened his eyes only to glare at Ryan halfheartedly. “It’s alright,” he said. “It’s no American Heartbeat, but objectively, it’s alright.”

Ryan blinked, and blinked again, but Shane didn’t disappear. This wasn’t a bizarre dream. He really was here, listening to a man tell him that Bohemian Rhapsody was _alright_. That it wasn’t a stroke of genius, a heavenly experience, unheard of, auditorily gold—no, it was _alright_.

“Alright,” he echoed. “Right. Of course.”

Shane had closed his eyes again, and was swaying left and right, occasionally chiming in to sing along to the song, off-tune in a vaguely horrific way. He was snapping his fingers at the right time to the beat, like he’d heard the song over and over too many times and knew, to the core of his heart, what each and every second sounded like in sequence.

Ryan looked at him, and found he couldn’t quite look away.

 

**“Love My Way”, or, November, 1983**

“Did you know,” Shane said, twirling his spoon in his coffee lazily, “that the hotel that The Shining’s Overlook hotel was based on is actually haunted?”

Ryan looked up from his strawberry milkshake. “It is?” He asked. “Really?”

Shane shot him a _look_. “No, of course not, because no building is fucking haunted, Ryan.”

Ryan laughed without meaning to.

This had become somewhat of a recurring theme in their conversations, yet it never failed to simultaneously make Ryan feel giddy and disappointed. It was fun to argue with Shane, but it would’ve been equally as fun to, just once, prove him wrong.

They’d been hanging out, at first sporadically and now nearly every other day at least, for the past month since their first encounter at the park. It was fun. It was new. Ryan hadn’t experienced either of those things in a while.

Shane was interesting. Shane painted his nails, and wore horrendous woolen jumpers, and listened to Modern Talking despite the fact that ninety percent of the men Ryan knew wouldn’t admit to the fact even on their deathbed.

Shane also said shit like, _I like the tonality of your voice_ , and, _your hair’s too soft_ , and other things along similar lines that definitely didn’t make Ryan flush and his heart stammer a little like it had stumbled over a loose stone. Shane didn’t seem to notice, or care, what came out of this mouth – he never even looked on long enough to see Ryan’s reactions, which was probably for the best.

The point being, Shane was cool. And Shane thought Ryan was cool. And somehow, Ryan had been swooped along for the ride, the ending point of which he didn’t know or couldn’t even make a vague guess about.

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,” Ryan said, picking a fresh strawberry off his milkshake and popping it in his mouth. “I’m just saying, ghosts exist. And you’re being lame.”

“Lame?” Shane asked, quirking a brow. “For being realistic?”

“It’s not realistic to not believe in ghosts, it’s sceptic,” Ryan corrected. “And yes, it’s lame. Live a little. Go to a haunted house and chat to a ghost. Have _fun_.”

Shane sipped his coffee, and made a face. “They always make it too bitter,” he said, frowning at the cup. “And before you start, because I can see you opening your mouth, no, I don’t want to hear a single joke on how it matches my personality.”

Ryan closed his mouth and grinned. “But the joke is right there,” he said. “Come on.”

Shane sighed, looking up at the ceiling in exasperation. “Okay,” he amended. He cleared his throat. “Wow, this coffee sure is bitter as fuck, why do they always make it like that?” He looked pointedly at Ryan.

“It’s because they need to match the customer with the right product,” Ryan said, still grinning. He paused. “Okay, that wasn’t my best. But the point is, you’re bitter. Just like your coffee. And meanwhile I am as sweet as this strawberry milkshake.”

“Sweet, my ass,” Shane snorted. “You’re the devil himself, Bergara.”

Ryan pretended to be offended, pressing his hand over his heart. “My, the kind of verbal assault I put up with,” he said in a feigned voice.

“Absolutely abysmal,” Shane agreed. “Why are we friends, again?”

Ryan shrugged. “Realistically? Because we’re both weirdos with not a lot of other friends to hang out with. The fun answer? We’re not, we hate each other’s guts but we have to pretend to be friends because it’s a part of our undercover mission to discover the Russian spies hiding in our area.”

“Oh, of course,” Shane said, pointing his spoon at Ryan. “You’re spot on. The Russians, with their evil dogs in space and rock music. They must be stopped right away.”

“Their evil dogs, rock music and nuclear weapons,” Ryan pointed out.

“No one’s stupid enough to really start a nuclear war,” Shane said dismissively. “Well, no, actually. Reagan might be. I rescind my statement.”

“Reagan sure is something,” Ryan muttered darkly.

He and Shane shared an understanding look. It wasn’t anything of a secret that Shane was bisexual, and Ryan… Ryan was something. He wasn’t sure whether Shane knew or not, but he had to have at least made an educated guess. Ryan wasn’t sure he ever wanted to verbally confirm anything – it seemed like something of an unspoken mutual agreement, that they both just _knew_ and that was it.

“I like this scenario of yours, though,” Shane said, pulling Ryan away from his thoughts. “Are we working for the feds?”

“Sure,” Ryan agreed. “We’re highly trained, special agents.”

“Obviously,” Shane nodded. “And in reality, we despise each other – couldn’t stand being in the same room for more than five minutes, but job necessities mandate otherwise.”

“Yeah, your work morals are fucking horrendous,” Ryan said and slurped his milkshake loudly.

“A fucking travesty working with you,” Shane threw back.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, before they both broke into laughter.

“Can you imagine actually being a spy?” Shane asked once they calmed down. “The excitement and… and the thrills.”

“I don’t know about excitement – danger, more like,” Ryan said. He finished his milkshake and stared forlornly at the bubbles remaining at the bottom of the glass. “Hey. The thing I said, about you needing to go to a haunted house to live a little – should we actually do it?”

Shane looked at him with an indecipherable expression. “Go to a haunted house?”

Ryan shrugged. “Spend the night, talk to some ghosts. I don’t know. I thought it might be fun.”

Shane looked down at the table for a while, before nodding slowly. “Okay,” he agreed. His eyes met Ryan’s. “Let’s go talk to some fucking ghosts.”

 

**“(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight”, or, December, 1983**

They hadn’t accounted for the fact that temperatures in California in December weren’t exactly high when they’d been preparing for their trip to a haunted house. Or, at least they weren’t very high during the night. This presented itself as somewhat of a problem.

The day had been fine. They’d arrived at the house a little past three in the afternoon, backpacks on their shoulders and their bikes resting against the fence of the terrace.

The house itself had maybe once upon a time been nice and rustic, with beige outer walls and caramel coloured window frames and doors, but all that had been lost in the decay of time. Now the paint was crumbling off, the windows were smashed broken and spider webs hung from every conceivable surface.

It had two floors. The stairs were, surprisingly, in decent condition – or at least, they were in good enough condition that after exploring the downstairs, they held on while Shane and Ryan made their way upstairs.

The creaking was unnerving. Ryan wasn’t sure what it was about the constant noise that made the hairs on his arms stand, but he didn’t like it. Shane laughed and said that it was part of the experience, because Shane didn’t take anything about the house seriously.

The upstairs consisted of two bedrooms and a bathroom. They decided to leave the bathroom as it was, and camped up on one of the bedrooms, the one furthest away from the stairs because Shane insisted it would make it more exciting.

It didn’t. It only made Ryan more anxious, but he didn’t mention it aloud, because that would’ve equalled admitting defeat and he wasn’t about to do that.

Night creeped in, slowly but surely.

“Is it just me, or can you see my breath?” Ryan asked. They were lying side by side on the floor, because the bed had been too dusty – only, they hadn’t realized to bring sleeping bags, and were left lying on top of some thin blankets with their backpacks as pillows.

Shane turned his head slightly, and Ryan breathed out to demonstrate. “Oh, yeah,” Shane said. “Totally. It has to be like, 40 degrees or something.”

Ryan crossed his arms in an attempt to hug himself for some warmth. “We should’ve brought sleeping bags,” he lamented.

“We could always leave,” Shane offered. “I mean, I think it’s fair to say that there’s nothing in this house. No ghost has talked to us. No ghost has even so much as lifted a fork on the kitchen table.”

“No,” Ryan argued. “We agreed that we’d spend the night, so we’re spending the fucking night. If it gets unbearably cold, we can always—”

“Cuddle for warmth?”

“—sleep on the bed—what?”

Shane looked at him with a small grin. “I said, we could—”

“No, I heard you,” Ryan cut in. “We’re not… I mean. Would you want to? I mean, would you? Do that?”

Shane shrugged. “I have bigger hang-ups than cuddling my friends, Ryan. And the world has bigger problems than that.”

Ryan blinked at the ceiling which looked as though it might collapse any minute. It wasn’t that he was opposed to the idea – or, he didn’t think he was – was he? No. It was just that he was afraid that if he got a small taste of something he wanted, he’d want more, and when he couldn’t have it, well. It would only end up hurting him, wouldn’t it?

But it was the rational thing to do. Shane would think it was weird if he said no. Or maybe he wouldn’t, but he might, and who knew what kind of conclusions Shane leaped to when given permission. Maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Shane knew that Ryan was into him, but it would ruin things.

Shane had said they were friends. Shane had said he liked Ryan a lot – as a friend. It had felt like a pointed statement. _As a friend_. Some sort of a message, that Ryan should take the hint and not expect anything more than that.

Which was fine. Ryan was fine with being friends with Shane. Shane was becoming one of the best friends he’d ever had, but, and there was always a but – but it still clawed at his heart, a little, at night, or when Shane smiled real bright, or when he brought Ryan cut-out collages of his favourite celebrities, or when he made Ryan mixtapes and presented them with a nervous shuffle and a lopsided wink, that they weren’t more than that.

It was a little selfish, and a little ridiculous, but Ryan figured that was what emotions were all about.

“I guess,” he said aloud. “It’s not too cold, though, is it? Or, I don’t know, maybe it is. Should’ve brought the sleeping bags—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Shane rolled around and sneaked his arms around Ryan, tangling their feet together. His cold nose pressed against Ryan’s shoulder, and Ryan felt his throat catch.

“Better?” Shane asked quietly. “Roll over, so we can do this properly, I feel like a fucking idiot.”

Ryan swallowed and tried to reassess his life, when all that his brain was giving him was _he’s touching me, he’s hugging me, Ryan you’re a fucking idiot if you don’t roll over right this fucking instant_.

So, he did. Shane readjusted, his forehead pressing against Ryan’s neck whilst his arms wrapped around his waist. Ryan could feel each spot where they were touching, and his skin was tingling, though it was hard to say whether it was from the cold or because of Shane, or maybe both.

“Better?” Shane asked again. Ryan could feel his breath on his skin through his clothes.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, uh, better. But what about the ghosts—”

“For once,” Shane mumbled, “just shut up about the fucking ghosts and relax.”

Ryan blinked. “Okay,” he agreed. “We’ll talk to them tomorrow, unless we’re in a hurry, or something.”

“There’s plenty of time,” Shane assured him. “You worry too much. Just—close your eyes, and let things be.”

Ryan took a deep breath in, and let it out. He let his shoulder slump and his legs relax, and closed his eyes, letting the darkness envelop him as he breathed in synchrony with Shane, feeling his heart settle and quiet down, safe and secure.

 

**“Maniac”, or, January, 1984**

“Picasso,” Ryan spat out, stumbling a little on his skates. He grabbed the edge of the rink for support as he almost slipped and fell on his ass.

“Good guess, but no,” Shane said. He was standing next to Ryan in his ridiculous skates, black and decorated with pink neon stars and similarly coloured laces. He had his hands behind his back, like skating was the easiest thing in the whole wide world. “Try again.”

Ryan tried a hesitant slide, his hands still on the railing, and this time, he maintained his balance. “I don’t know, Van Gogh,” he tried.

“Nope,” Shane said. He was skating smoothly beside Ryan, hands still clasped behind his back. “Although, he is one of my favourites. Another one.”

Ryan shot him a desperate look. “Do you find amusement in this?” He asked. “Do you enjoy my suffering?”

Shane tilted his head, as if considering Ryan’s words. “Let’s see. You, struggling to stay on your feet, while you fail at guessing my favourite artist over and over, despite the answer being _very_ obvious – yes, I find amusement in this.”

“You’re a demon,” Ryan grumbled. He straightened out, and slowly let go of the railing. “Oh, look, I’m doing it.”

Shane eyed him up and down. Ryan was standing perfectly still, his hands posed on either side of him like wings mid-fly, his legs bent a little at the knees.

“Yes,” Shane drawled. “You’re doing magnificent. Do you want me to teach you?”

“ _No_ ,” Ryan argued loudly. “I don’t need help, I’m doing great.” He paused, and let his hands settle down. “Okay, watch this.”

He kicked one foot, trying to glide down the rink. It went fine for a few seconds, and Ryan almost cheered for himself, until he realized that he was sliding with his left foot and would soon have to do something to keep going, or stutter to a stop, or, more embarrassingly, fall down.

Before he could decide on what to do, Shane materialized next to him and grabbed him by the elbow. Ryan did stutter to a stop, but he remained standing on both of his feet, which he counted as a win.

“That was the worst attempt at roller skating I’ve ever seen in my life,” Shane said, “and I’ve seen a lot of attempts. I’ll teach you, okay? Let’s start at the basics, which would be for you to keep your balance long enough to try anything else.”

They practiced by Shane skating and holding on to Ryan, who’s main objective was to not fall down. Shane was, according to himself, decent – though Ryan would’ve argued that he was slightly better than that.

He and Ryan skated around the rink a few times, as seventies disco and modern pop played in the background. Each time Ryan tried to sing or hum along to something, he lost his focus, and almost fell again – Shane was there to catch him every time.

They stopped after a while, and Ryan didn’t need to lean against the railing for support anymore.

“This is harder than it looks like,” he admitted. “I’ll give you that.”

Shane looked amused. “ _It’s not that hard, Shane_ ,” he imitated mockingly. “ _Anyone can fucking skate, Shane_.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “I was wrong, okay? I admit that, I was wrong. I’ll even—hey, Maniac.”

Shane frowned at him. “I’m a maniac?”

Ryan smacked him light-heartedly on the shoulder. “The song, you doofus. Maniac, from last year.”

Shane paused for a moment to listen, then nodded. “It’s a kickin’ song.”

“We should dance to it,” Ryan decided, against his better judgement. His heart was screaming at him to stop being so obvious about everything, but he figured he was tipping a safe line, still. Shane didn’t know anything, yet, and better so.

“How do you propose we dance with our skates on?” Shane asked. “Especially when you can’t even skate.”

Without replying, Ryan took Shane’s hands in his so that they were facing each other, with Shane’s back to the direction they were heading. He considered putting his other hand on Shane’s waist, but decided against it on the last second.

“Alright,” he said. “Skate backwards, and we’ll jam along the way.”

Shane’s mouth broke into a wide grin, his eyes crinkling. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay, I see. Let’s go, then.”

They started making their way around the rink again, swaying their arms and bopping their heads the best they could with Ryan steering them in the right direction and Shane keeping them upwards.

Ryan couldn’t stop breaking into giggles at Shane’s attempts at dancing – not that he was any better, he figured – and the way he was mouthing the lyrics along the way, all the _la, la, la’s_ included. They bumped into some people along the way, and shouted apologies as they moved past them, still laughing.

The song ended and switched on to Spacer. Several things happened at once – Ryan, excited about the song, tried to jump before he realized he was still very much wearing skates. Shane tried to grab on to his elbows to keep him balanced, but only served to further implicate them both. They fell in a heap, Shane landing on his back and Ryan on top of him, knocking the air out of Shane.

“Fucking hell,” Shane wheezed, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s just a song, Ryan.”

Ryan had his face pressed against Shane’s chest, and he was shaking from laughter. “I’m sorry,” he managed to get out. “That was my bad, jesus, I’m sorry about your back but – but this is _Spacer_.”

Shane’s eyes flickered to him, and he looked torn between amusement and exasperation. “I swear, you’ll be the death of me,” he pronounced, but he was grinning, and Ryan was grinning, and then they were both laughing again and neither wanted to get up, not right now, and not for a while.

 

**“I Melt With You”, or, February 1984**

Valentine’s Day, according to Shane, was dumb and overrated. Valentine’s Day, according to Ryan, was sweet and saccharine. Their views didn’t clash so much as they gently bumped each other, but nevertheless, once 14th of February rolled around, they found themselves bickering about it over a game of chess in Ryan’s apartment.

Ryan’s apartment wasn’t terrible. He could say that much about it. Its location wasn’t great, and its décor was bordering on offensive, but it was his and that was more than enough.

Shane thought his apartment was incredible. He’d complimented Ryan on everything from his sometimes-broken-sometimes-not freezer to his mustard coloured curtains, and somehow, he’d even sounded genuine about it. Ryan wasn’t sure how he’d done it.

They were in the living room, sitting on the floor with the coffee table between them and the chess board sitting atop the table.

As it turned out, Shane was horrible at chess. This become obvious by the third game, when he got his pawn eaten within the first few moves and then sent his rook to a location which was against the rules, and didn’t even notice until Ryan pointed it out to him.

They decided on another game after Shane lost again, this time with Ryan giving him instructions along the way.

“You don’t have any other Valentine’s Day plans?” Ryan asked as casually as he could. “Watch your pawn in G3.”

“Oh, shit,” Shane said. “I’ll move it to… to G4.”

“Not great but better,” Ryan commented. He moved his rook to eat one of Shane’s pawns. “So. Plans?”

Shane stared at the board, unamused. “Plans, no. I’m not seeing anyone, you know that. I’ve got all day to spend here and watch you beat me at chess.”

Ryan couldn’t help the fluttering of joy in his chest, and then felt awful for it. It wasn’t as though Shane didn’t want to be there – he’d sounded overjoyed when Ryan had suggested they spend the day together. But Ryan was sure there were better ways of spending Valentine’s than cooped up playing chess with your friend, who was harbouring a crush on you. Even if you were single.

“You don’t have anyone on your… radar?” Ryan asked, feeling like he was threading on thin ice. “Bishop from E4 to B1.”

“But that’s—oh, fuck you,” Shane said as Ryan ate another one of his pawns. He glanced up at Ryan, frowning a little. “Also, why did you have to word it like that? No, I don’t have anyone in my _radar_. You know that as well. I tell you everything.”

He said it so casually Ryan might’ve let it slip, had it not been for the weight of his words _– I tell you everything._ It wasn’t something you said casually to someone, was it? Or was Ryan blowing things out of proportion, seeing something that wasn’t there? People said things like that, he supposed. Sometimes. To some people.

“I’m sure you don’t tell me _everything_ ,” Ryan laughed, blinking nervously at the board.

Shane shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah. But my point is, you’d know if I was hooking up with anyone. Especially with the situation being what it is.”

Ryan felt a twist in his stomach. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Hook-ups might not be what I’d be looking for, right now.”

Shane bit his lower lip, staring at his side of the board. “But you’re not looking for anything right now?” He asked. “Pawn from G3 to H4.”

Ryan didn’t know what he was doing, exactly. He didn’t want to be hung up on Shane, but he didn’t want to move on without telling Shane how he felt, which he didn’t want to do in the slightest – so, he was effectively stuck, trying to exist in a liminal space caught between Shane and other people.

It was difficult, to say the least.

“No,” he summarized. “I guess not. Not really in the space for that, and… you know. With the situation being as it is.”

Shane nodded and hummed. “If I move my rook from A1 to A5, do I get to eat your pawn?”

Ryan glanced around the board. “I mean, yeah. Go for it.”

Shane knocked his white pawn down with a beaming grin, and moved it to the side of the board. “See?” He asked, smiling at Ryan. “I’m improving.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it _improving_ —”

“Shut up, I’m improving. Your move.”

They broke the whiskey out around six in the evening, after many chess games of various success, and some more successful games of poker and blackjack.

Ryan didn’t want to be sad and drunk on Valentine’s Day. So maybe it was good that if he had to be, at least he was doing it with Shane, and not by himself and pining after Shane. The more he thought about it, the less sure he was that this was a good idea.

But by then he’d already suggested, and Shane had already agreed, and they both already had tumblers full of some cheap single malt.

They migrated to the living room couch, and slouched as comfortably as they could.

Shane lifted his glass towards Ryan. “Cheers,” he said.

Ryan knocked their glasses together, careful not to spill any on his couch. “Cheers,” he said back, “and happy miserable Valentine’s.”

Shane laughed, sipping his drink. “Well, it’s not that miserable, is it? I mean, you’ve got me to keep you company.”

“A real treat,” Ryan said dryly.

Shane threw him a wink. “It is,” he said. “I’m great company.”

Ryan couldn’t find a single reason to argue against that.

 

**“Hold Me Now”, or, March, 1984**

It had been Ryan’s idea to go to a drive-in for a special screening of The Shining. They were playing horror films on subsequent Saturdays at a drive-in not too far from Glendale and towards Downtown LA, so the distance wasn’t an issue – nor the film, which they’d both seen in theatres and loved to varying degrees.

Still, Shane was being a dweeb about it.

“It’ll be cold, and there’ll be a bunch of drunk idiots there, I guarantee you, and someone will slash our tires and then what the hell are we going to do?” Shane rattled on. He dipped a french fry into Ryan’s milkshake from across the table.

“No one’s gonna slash our tires, what are you on about?” Ryan asked, moving his milkshake further away from Shane. “And it’s not even that cold, it’ll be like over 50 degrees – we’ll bring blankets, and buy popcorn and soda, and watch the fucking Shining.”

Shane tried to dip another fry in the milkshake, but Ryan lifted it from his reach; he pouted. “I just have a bad feeling about drive-ins,” he said, popping the plain fry into his mouth. “Come on, you’re not even drinking it, let me dip.”

He was right; Ryan hadn’t so much as touched the vanilla shake in the half an hour they’d been sitting in the diner. Reluctantly, he placed it between them on the table. “I don’t understand why you can’t just use ketchup like normal people,” he mumbled. Louder, he added, “The drive-in would be fun, and you know it. Stop being lame.”

“I’m not _lame_ , I’m practical,” Shane argued. “There are weirdos who go to these things. Did you read about the thing on the papers, how someone went around stealing people’s wallets when they were too busy gawking at the screen? I’m not about that, Ryan.”

Ryan couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “That was one incident,” he said, “and besides, that wasn’t even anywhere near LA. You can take your wallet and sit on top of it, if that makes you feel more secure.” He paused, looking pleadingly at Shane. “I just want to see Shining in a drive-in, Shay. _Come on_.”

Shane eyed him, his mouth set into a frown, but it didn’t last long – in a few seconds, his face crumbled, and he smiled down at his fries. “Stop it with that face,” he said. “You know how it makes me feel. _Fine_ , we’ll go to the drive-in. But you’re paying for my popcorn, and if someone slashes our tires, you know what I’ll tell you.”

Ryan beamed. “Wicked.”

Shane dipped another fry in Ryan’s milkshake, looking sour.

The next Saturday, they packed up in Ryan’s car and set off towards the drive-in, some twenty miles away from where they lived. It wasn’t a long drive, so Shane – who loved to often loudly proclaim his disdain for driving – had agreed to drive them back after the movie, in case Ryan was too tired.

It had gotten dark already by the time they made it to there. The park wasn’t as full as Ryan had expected, so they paid for their ticket and drove to a nice, secluded spot where they could see the screen well enough.

Ryan killed the ignition, and the car hummed once and settled into silence. Ryan glanced at Shane. “Do we want to stay inside the car, or be fun and climb to the roof?”

Shane sighed, but there was a smile dragging at the corner of his mouth. “Can your car’s roof even support the two of us?”

“Of course it can,” Ryan assured him. “George is sturdy as hell.”

Shane tilted his head to look at him, and quirked a brow. “George?”

Ryan shrugged. “Like George Michael.”

Shane made an understanding sound. “Of course. Will you get the popcorn while I set everything up?”

Once Ryan came back with the popcorn and soda, Shane had set their blankets on top of the car, and piled some pillows for a backrest. He was lounging against them, his legs crossed and his fingers tapping a random rhythm against his thigh.

When he noticed Ryan approaching, he extended a hand to take his share of the popcorn, and mumbled his thanks.

Ryan settled down next to him, and reached out for the extra blanket balled up by their feet to pull it over the two of them. They were practically glued on to each other, arm to arm. Ryan did his best to not think about it too much, and let his mind focus on something else, anything else other than the fact that he could feel it whenever Shane shifted or coughed or laughed.

“When’s it supposed to start?” Shane asked into their comfortable silence.

“Not sure,” Ryan replied. He checked his wrist watch. “About now, I think—”

Before he could finish the sentence, the projector kicked on and they could see the movie begin to play out on the screen. There were scattered cheers of excitement that died down quickly as the credits started rolling.

The wind picked up, and Ryan shuffled closer to Shane underneath the blanket without meaning to. Instead of saying anything, Shane extended his arm over Ryan’s shoulders to pull him closer, his eyes never leaving the screen.

Ryan very adamantly did not think about it. He thought about the bills on his kitchen table, the milk that had gone bad and which he had yet to throw away, the book he’d been meaning to finish for months now but somehow never got around to. He thought about the movie, and how rad it would’ve been to visit the hotel it was based on, the one that was haunted.

He thought about everything else but Shane’s arm around him, holding him in place, because if he started thinking about it, he feared he might not stop.

“Do you think you’d go crazy if you were Jack?” Shane asked abruptly in a quiet voice.

Ryan blinked, trying to focus himself. “Uh, I don’t know. Probably, yeah. I mean, who wouldn’t?”

Shane hummed in agreement. “Promise you won’t ever try to hack me into pieces with an axe?”

Ryan let out a startled laughter. “Yeah,” he said. “I promise.”

It was only after the movie had ended that Ryan realized he hadn’t even touched his popcorn.

 

**“The Riddle”, or, April, 1984**

“Hold my beer,” Ryan said, pushing the glass into Shane’s hands.

“Why?” Shane asked, frowning at him. “What are you – are you about to start a fucking bar fight, or something?

“ _No_ ,” Ryan said emphatically. “I need to find my wallet, I don’t know where I put—oh, it’s in my back pocket, good.” He took the glass back from Shane and sipped it. “Better than at the previous place, I’ll give ‘em that.”

“No shit,” Shane said. “Three times more expensive, too.”

“Well, we’re celebrating,” Ryan said as a way of arguing his point. “Here’s to you, for coming out _and_ for getting a promotion!”

They clinked their glasses together, some beer spilling over to the floor. They both took a generous gulp at the same time, and set their glasses on the bar counter.

It wasn’t too late into the evening yet, so the place wasn’t particularly crowded. Karma Chameleon was playing quietly in the background, loud enough to be heard but not too loud to be an annoyance. Shane and Ryan were lounging by the counter, well into their third beers of the night.

Shane had called Ryan the day before with news. He’d gotten a promotion at the newspaper he worked for to be the chief editor for his department – something he’d been striving for since he’d gotten the job, four years ago.

And, he’d come out to his family. He hadn’t talked about that as much, and Ryan hadn’t pressed, but he’d gotten the impression that it hadn’t gone as bad as it could’ve – or if it had, Shane very much didn’t want to talk about it.

Ryan thought about his own family, how open he was with them but how lately he hadn’t been sharing as much, or maybe not in such detail. It was inevitable that when he lived in a different state, correspondence was bound to be few and far between, and that when they managed a phone call or a letter, it was short and to the point: how are you, how is work, are you okay. But it was still melancholic, in its own way, how his conversations had diminished so much.

“Ryan,” Shane said suddenly, smacking him lightly on the arm. “Ryan, they have a quiz night tonight.”

Ryan glanced from where he’d been smacked to Shane, and frowned. “A quiz night?”

“A quiz night,” Shane repeated. His eyes met Ryan’s. “I love quizzes. Most people are really ditz, but the questions are fun. We should totally play to win, as a team.”

“Do they even have rewards?” Ryan asked sceptically.

Shane tilted his head. “Is it not enough of a reward to get to play a quiz with me?”

 _Yes_ , Ryan’s mind supplied. “No,” he said aloud. “Not even free drinks or something?”

Shane picked the leaflet up from the counter and read it through. He was wearing his round glasses again, Ryan noticed. Them, combined with his fluffy hair and red, blue and yellow striped sweater and dark blue jeans, made him look… well. Suffice to say Ryan thought he looked good.

“Nothing about rewards,” Shane told him. “But we can always ask if they’ll give us something on the house.”

“We’d have to win to do that, first of all,” Ryan pointed out.

Shane made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “We’ll win,” he said flippantly. “Trust me.”

“Something about you doesn’t inspire confidence,” Ryan said, but Shane was already too busy ordering another drink and babbling about his extensive experiences with pub quizzes to listen.

The quiz officially started at eleven, on the dot. Shane and Ryan sat together on a small couch, pressed against each other – Ryan thought he was getting used to it, by now. Or at least his heart didn’t want to jump out of its rib cage anymore whenever Shane’s arm brushed his.

There were three other groups playing beside them, all scattered around on their own chairs. An older couple from Iowa, vacationing here; two girls who looked like they were barely allowed in, wearing high heels and padded shoulders; and a man and a woman, too uncomfortable around each other to be a couple but still something along those lines.

Their host had to yell to be heard over the music, which had been turned up and was now blasting Tainted Love.

“The rules are simple,” the host bellowed, reading the instructions from the cards in his hands. “As soon as you know the answer, raise your hand, and I’ll give you permission to answer. If you provide me with a wrong answer, you’re disqualified from answering the same question again – but the other groups still have a shot at a point. One correct answer equals one point, please keep tab yourselves on how you’re doing.”

Next to Ryan, Shane smoothened out a piece of paper and clicked his pen open.

“Should we have a team name?” He asked, turning to look at Ryan.

“Oh, for sure,” Ryan said. “Something like… Death Hawks.”

Shane blinked. “Death Hawks?” He asked.

Ryan stared back, adamant. “Death Hawks.”

Shane nodded slowly. “Okay, we’ll be Death Hawks.”

They played a few successful rounds; it turned out that Shane was true to his word, and knew a surprising amount of absolute bullshit that no one should’ve cared the least bit about. He and Ryan worked well as a team, synchronous to the point of obscene – it made something inside Ryan feel joyous, that they were so used to each other by now that he knew from the way Shane tapped his foot what he wanted.

By the time they arrived to the final question, they were tied with the older couple from Iowa, who knew more about current pop culture than either Shane or Ryan had anticipated.

“For the final point,” the host started, “who directed the 1980 film Friday the 13th?”

Ryan’s hand flew up before the couple from Iowa had even registered the question.

“Yes?” The host asked.

“Sean S. Cunningham,” Ryan shouted, only to notice that his voice was joined by Shane saying the same thing at the same time. They turned to look at each other, and broke into laughter as the host announced them to be the winners by one point.

Ryan only stopped laughing when Shane leaned forward to hug him, and even then, his laughter only dwindled into a wide grin as he wrapped his arms around Shane and breathed him in.

 

**“The Sun Always Shines On T.V”, or, May, 1984**

Shane kicked a lonely rock further down the path and glanced up at the sky, a frown set between his brows. “It’s gonna rain,” he prophesized solemnly, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket.

“It’s not going to rain, stop being pessimistic,” Ryan argued, trailing a few steps behind him. He was carrying their food basket, while Shane was responsible for the blankets stuffed into his backpack. “And even if it does, we have umbrellas. It’s not a problem.”

“An umbrella isn’t going to do _much_ ,” Shane pointed out. “Especially if it starts pouring down hard. I’m just saying, I—”

“Have a bad feeling about this?” Ryan cut in. “Yeah, you usually do. Just shut up and keep walking, we’re still a little less than half a mile away.”

They’d driven over to the nearby Griffith Park, for that year’s first official picnic – last week, the day time temperature broke seventy, and the first thing Ryan did had been to call Shane and announce that they were going to have a picnic. Shane had readily agreed; and so, here they were.

The picnic area wasn’t too far off from the car. It was a scenic, secluded spot, away from the main paths. They set their blanket down and settled on top of it – Ryan lay on his back, his fingers crossed behind his neck, whilst Shane sat next to him with the basket beside him, absently flipping through a fashion magazine.

The sun shone through the clouds bright enough that Ryan fished for his sunglasses, and propped them on his nose. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, letting the tension slip from his body. Summer always felt like a well deserved break. 

“Are those new?” Shane’s voice asked.

Ryan didn't bother opening his eyes to see what he was referring to. “The glasses?”

“No, your sense of humour – yes, your glasses.”

Ryan laughed. “Yeah, they’re new. They had a sale down at Macy’s. Half the usual price.”

Shane whistled appreciatively. “Half a price? That’s a bargain.” He paused. “Hey, remember when you tried to guess my favourite painter? You never did.”

Ryan cracked one eye open and looked at Shane through the glasses. “You want me to guess now?”

“Why not?” Shane asked. “You got something better to do out here?”

Ryan closed his eyes again. “Okay. Monet.”

“No – come on, this should be easy. I’ll give you a hint – it’s a woman.”

Ryan racked through his brain for female painters, and found himself blanking out. He had to know some, didn’t he? Why couldn’t a single one pop into his mind, now he just looked like an ignorant ditz.

“Gentileschi?” He eventually guessed, as one name slithered its way through the muddle of his memory. “The baroque one, you know.”

“I know,” Shane said. “But, no. Think more recent.”

“Recent?” Ryan thought about it for a while. “Kahlo? Frida Kahlo?”

He felt Shane slap his leg gently. “Bingo!” He said, sounding excited. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you didn’t know me at all.”

Kahlo was the last person Ryan would’ve thought to be Shane’s artist of choice. He couldn’t see Shane’s innate rationality mixing well with surrealism, but then, maybe that was the reason why. Opposites attract.

“I would never have gotten there without the hint,” Ryan admitted. “Okay, well, bet you can’t guess mine.”

“Titian,” Shane said, without an second of hesitation.

Ryan took his sunglasses off to stare at him, caught between a frown and a smile. “How did you get that in one try?”

“You mentioned it sometime last year,” Shane said, shrugging.

“I mentioned it sometime last year,” Ryan echoed in disbelief. “Why would you remember something like that?”

Shane shrugged again; this time, he looked a little sheepish. He turned his head to look away from Ryan and at the trees around them, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “I like to remember things about you,” he said simply.

Ryan didn’t press further. He didn’t want to. His heart was already aching enough.

He sat up, and stared at the tartan pattern of the blanket, biting his lower lip. He should tell Shane, he thought. He should tell him now and be done with it, before he got himself further into this sinking hole he was in.

If Shane didn’t feel the same way, fine. They’d still be friends. Ryan was bound to get over his feelings one day, and he could wait. All he had done lately was wait – he was starting to become an expert in it. He knew how to wait.

“Shane,” he started, hesitantly looking up at him. “Can I tell you something?”

Shane looked back at him. For a second, his face remained blank; then it broke into a small, awkward grin. “What,” he said, “are you breaking up with me?”

Ryan felt his stomach sink. “I’m…” he started, then stopped to reconsider. “Actually, never mind. It was just a silly thought.”

Shane frowned. “Ryan—”

He was cut off by the loud rumbling of thunder rolling in the distance. A few droplets fell, and soon they escalated into a downpour. Ryan blinked the water from his eyes, and glanced at Shane.

Shane looked at their ruined food basket. “Well,” he said grimly, “I did tell you so.”

 

**“Love & Pride”, or, June, 1984**

“Come on,” Shane called out from the kitchen. “Please. Just this once.”

Ryan inspected his nails critically in the dim living room light. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I don’t think it’d suit me. Do you?”

Shane appeared in the doorway with two glasses of red wine. He set the other one down on the table in front of Ryan and sat down next to him, taking a sip of his own glass. Shane eyed it with a frown. “Remind me to never buy this again,” he mumbled. He turned his head towards Ryan. “And yes, I think it’d suit you, that’s why I suggested it in the first place.”

Ryan pursed his lips. “Are you sure?” He lifted his hands up to the level of his face, palms facing away from him, and looked at his nails. “Okay, well, what colour do you think, then? Blue?”

Shane gave him a look over. “Is that what you’ll wear to the parade?” He asked, and there was an unspoken _please say no_ in his tone.

Ryan, who’d thought he’d wear this outfit to the parade, said, “No, of course not.”

“What, then?”

Ryan thought about his wardrobe, the various denims and blue jumpers and the one white tank top Shane had forced him to buy from Fashion 21. None of it made a half-decent outfit for a Pride parade, he didn’t think.

“Uh,” he said. “I don’t know?”

With a beleaguered sigh, Shane set his glass down and made his way over to Ryan’s bedroom. He emerged a few minutes later with the white tank top and light blue denim shorts. “These,” he announced, dumping them on the living room table, “will do.”

Ryan stared at them with vague feelings of horror. “I hate the tank top,” he said.

“It’s hot,” Shane argued.

Ryan looked at him. “That doesn’t make me hate it any less, does it?”

Shane picked his glass up and took a generous swig. He pulled another face at the taste. “All I’m saying is, I think it looks great on you, I think it’s going to be a million degrees out there tomorrow _and_ it’s Pride.”

It felt as though the tank top was glaring at Ryan, daring him to wear it. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he said. “ _Fine_ , I’ll wear the fucking tank top. Now what about the nails?”

Shane flopped down on the couch beside him, and produced a small bag from his backpack. “I’m so glad you asked,” he said cheerfully, and unzipped the bag. He took another look at Ryan and the clothes on the table, and bit his lip. “I’m thinking you were right, about the blue. Light blue, maybe. Matches with the shorts.”

“And you’ll paint them?” Ryan asked, suddenly horrified at the thought that he’d have to do it himself.

“Yes,” Shane said absently. He was rummaging through the bag for the right colour. “Oh, here we go. Give me your hands.”

Ryan turned so that he was sitting cross-legged on the couch, facing Shane, and obliged. Shane uncorked the small bottle of nail polish, and balanced it on his knee, mirroring Ryan’s position. He took his right hand in his and started meticulously painting each nail, occasionally blowing on them to get them to dry faster.

Ryan stared at the process, fascinated. “It looks nice,” he said, to his own surprise. “It actually looks fun.”

Shane smiled to himself, eyes trained on Ryan’s nails. “I told you so,” he said, only a little bit smug. “When I’m done with yours, I’ll see about a rainbow flag on mine.”

“Oh, that’s clever.”

Shane hummed, not quite agreeing but not disagreeing, either. “Guess what I’m wearing, though?”

“I’d assume your usual wardrobe of colour and denim,” Ryan wagered.

“Good guess, but no,” Shane said. “I got a special made T-shirt, when I visited friends in San Francisco. Harvey Milk.”

Ryan looked up at him. Shane’s face was passive, but there was a hint of something simmering underneath the surface. “Good,” he said, resoundingly. “That’s good.”

Shane said nothing in return, and painted the rest of Ryan’s nails in a comfortable silence.

The clock on the wall was nearing two in the morning by the time they decided to go to bed. Ryan offered to take the couch, but Shane waved his comments aside immediately.

“We’ve slept on the floor of a haunted house together,” he said, “I’m sure we can manage one night in the same bed, Ry.”

Ryan wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t deem it necessary to protest.

Moonlight streamed in through the slightly parted curtains. Ryan was facing the window, his back turned to Shane who’d begun to snore loudly.

He felt peaceful. It was a feeling Ryan had missed – the feeling of simply being, with no responsibilities or burdens. Of course, there was the ever present, nagging voice in the back of his mind – _when will you tell him, you need to tell him, tell him now or never_ – but for once, it was blissfully quiet.

Ryan shifted under the covers. There was enough light for him to see his nails properly. As he was inspecting them, he noticed that there was a small, dark blue heart on the ring finger of his right hand. He smiled to himself, and closed his eyes, knowing that tomorrow would be a good day.

 

**“I’ve Been Waiting For a Girl Like You”, or, July, 1984**

“Does it work?” Shane asked, nodding towards the radio sitting on Ryan’s bureau.

It was a piece of shit radio from two years back. Sometimes it stuttered, sometimes it decided to stop completely. Sometimes it refused to play certain tapes, which lead Ryan to believe that those mixtapes were simply cursed.

“It works when it wants to,” he said. “I got it as a present, but it’s been acting up for a while now.” He eyed Shane warily. “Why, what are you planning?”

Shane tried on his best innocent face. “Why would I be planning anything? Maybe I’m just curious. You don’t know.”

Ryan hoped he looked as unimpressed as he felt. “I know _you_ ,” he said. “What are you planning?”

Shane sighed, getting up from where he’d been lying sideways on the couch. “I’m bored,” he announced. “I was just wondering if you wanted to dance.”

Ryan’s heart jumped, against his permission. “Dance? As in, slow dance, or what?”

He didn’t want to slow dance with Shane. Well, no, he did – but he shouldn’t. He’d decided it was hopeless to wish for anything to happen between them, not since the picnic. Shane had said it so casually, like the joke it was meant to be – _what, are you breaking up with me_ – like the idea of them in a relationship was just a ridiculous notion.

Maybe Ryan was reading too much into it. Sometimes, he did that. But he didn’t want to kindle a flame that was meant to die.

But then, didn’t moving on include doing things like this – things like slow dancing – because it was supposed to be normal for them, because it wasn’t _supposed_ to hurt?

Shane shrugged. “Like slow dancing, if you have any good songs. Do you?”

Ryan thought about the mixtape hidden beneath all the other ones, the one he’d made for Shane but which Shane would never know about, because it included stuff like Can’t Help Falling in Love, and Shane wasn’t an idiot, despite evidence sometimes pointing that way.

“I have one for slower songs,” he said. “I’ll go get it.”

It wasn’t too bad of a mixtape. Some Air Supply, some Survivor – it was good. Shane would like it, he thought. Or maybe he hoped.

Ryan returned to the living room with the tape and put it in the cassette player, crossing his fingers that it wouldn’t glitch this time.

Nothing Can Shake Me From Your Love started playing softly, the strumming of the guitar filling the otherwise quiet apartment.

Ryan turned around, only to find Shane staring at him from a small distance away.

“Hey,” Ryan said. He felt anxiety coiling in his stomach.

Shane smiled at him. “Hey.” He took a step closer, and offered his hands. “Good start, the song.”

Ryan snorted. “Yeah, I thought you might like it, considering you think American Heartbeat is the greatest song ever.”

Shane didn’t deign him with a response. He took Ryan’s right hand in his, twining their fingers, and let his free hand rest on Ryan’s waist. Out of reflex, Ryan placed his left hand on Shane’s shoulder and took a step closer.

Shane smelled of Ryan’s shampoo, the one he’d borrowed the night before after he’d decided to stay over for the weekend. He still had the remnants of rainbow on his nails, though the polish was chipped at points. He was wearing an orange woollen jumper, with black zic-zac stripes around the waist and sleeves.

Ryan didn’t understand why he had to be so infatuated with a man who wore _orange_ and _wool_.

They swayed slowly on their feet as the songs melted into each other. Shane only stepped on his feet twice, and mumbled his apologies on both occasions to a giggling Ryan.

The song changed, and Ryan recognized the familiar synth sounds the second he heard them.

“Foreigner?” Shane asked quietly.

“Waiting For a Girl Like You,” Ryan supplied.

They continued swaying, until, abruptly, Shane stopped. He didn’t let go of Ryan, but he was looking at the floor rather than at him.

“Shane?” Ryan asked, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Shane was silent for a while. Then he cleared his throat. “There’s something that I need to say,” he started. There was an edge to his voice. “I’ve been meaning to say for a while now, actually, and I’ve practiced this a lot of times in my head but it never gets any easier, and the words always change, so, I don’t know what will come out this time, but—”

“I know,” Ryan cut in. His stomach had dropped. He let go of Shane, and took a step backwards. “This is about me, isn’t it?”

Shane frowned at him, confused. “In a way,” he said. “What—”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Ryan said before Shane could go any further. “I should’ve told you ages ago, but it never seemed like the right time, or when it did something went wrong or I chickened out, or. I don’t know. But I know what you’re going to say, and it’s—it’s partially my fault, I know, I—”

“Ryan,” Shane interrupted, stepping closer. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Ryan glanced at him. “That you don’t think we should be friends anymore?”

Shane blinked at him in silence for a while. Then he let out a breathy laugh, which evolved into full-blown, borderline hysterical laughter.

“What?” Ryan demanded. “It’s not funny—”

Shane lifted a finger to shush him. “Ryan,” he started, in between bouts of laughter, “I fucking love you, okay?”

The entire world stuttered to a stop. Ryan was vaguely aware of the song still playing in the background, and Shane staring at him, caught between fear and laughter and love – _love_. The word echoed around in a loop inside his mind, like a broken record, _love, love, love_.

“You…” Ryan started weakly. “You are—with me?”

“Yes,” Shane breathed out. “And if you don’t feel the same way, or even anything close, it’s _fine_ —”

“But I do,” Ryan said. Shane shut up. “I do,” he repeated, and now there was laughter bubbling in his chest as well. “Why didn’t you say anything before, you asshole, I’ve been pining for _months on end_ after your dumb ass—”

And then Shane stepped closer to kiss him, and the rest of the world melted away.  

 

**“The Search Is Over”, or, August, 1984**

“Not to be negative, but this movie looks like shit,” Ryan said, looking at the poster for _Dreamscape_. It looked like a knock-off copy of Raiders of the Lost Ark – like someone had seen Indiana Jones and went, _that seems to make sweet profit, let’s make one for ourselves_.

“I hate to agree with you, but I think you’re right,” Shane said. He was standing next to Ryan, close enough that their arms would occasionally brush. He glanced at Ryan. “Should we just… not go?”

Ryan let out a relieved breath he’d been holding. “Yes, please. I know a café close by, let’s go for some coffee or something.”

They ended up ordering a serving of fries and milkshakes – strawberry for Ryan, vanilla for Shane – and sat down in a booth in the corner of the café, well away from the earshot of everyone else.

“We should’ve stayed at your place,” Shane commented, snatching up a fry. He looked outside, where it had begun to rain, thudding quietly against the window pane. “It’s gonna be a bitch to walk back in this weather.”

Ryan shrugged, not too bothered. “We can always wait for the rain to stop.”

“I guess,” Shane said defeatedly. “I was really hoping to have a proper date night, too.”

“I know.” Ryan stirred his shake with a long spoon. “Maybe we can go next month?”

“Next month is just a string of even worse movies,” Shane lamented. He sighed, and looked up at Ryan. “But it’s fine. At least I’m with you.”

Ryan smiled into his milkshake. Shane hadn’t stopped saying things like that the past few weeks, like he’d been hoarding a collection of clichés in his sleeve and was now free to unleash them all.

“Ditto,” he said. A thought slipped into his mind, like a light bulb going off. “You know what we should do?”

Shane quirked a brow. “What?”

“Road trip,” Ryan said, like it was obvious.

“Road trip,” Shane echoed. “To _where_?”

Ryan spread his hands. “Anywhere,” he said. “New York? I’ve always wanted to see the Statue of Liberty with my own eyes.”

“They’re renovating it,” Shane pointed out. “It was in the papers. So, technically, we wouldn’t even see it. We’d just see a massive scaffold, which does sound interesting, but maybe not something I’d go to New York for.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “That’s not all that there is in New York. And besides, it doesn’t have to stop at New York – we can go anywhere. We could see the largest ball of twine in Kansas.”

“Ryan,” Shane said, “no one wants to go to Kansas.”

“And we don’t _have to_ – anywhere, Shane. Just you and me, in a car, across the US. See some places, meet some people – you had friends in San Fran, right? We’ll go there, too. I could meet them.”

Shane eyed him in silence for a while, a french fry extended halfway to his mouth. Eventually he sighed. “Okay,” he admitted. “It does sound like a great idea. I just don’t want to be let down by it.”

Ryan frowned. “Let down?”

“These things always sound better than they are,” Shane said. “Theoretically, I’d love to sit in a car with you for hours on end. Realistically, we’ll be at each other’s throats in two hours flat.”

“I know,” Ryan said. “And that’s part of the fun. It’ll be ups and downs, but mostly ups, because it’s us and when have we ever not had fun?”

“I don’t know, that haunted house wasn’t maybe the most fun—”

“It was fun, shut your trap.” Ryan leaned his forearms against the table, and drummed his fingers excitedly. “We’ll make some mixtapes for it – we can have American Heartbeat in there, too. Since it’s such a fucking masterpiece.”

“Hardy har,” Shane said, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You know what – fine. Let’s do a road trip. New York, you said?”

Ryan smiled brightly. “For example. We’ll make a plan.”

“Okay.” Shane dipped another dry in his vanilla shake. “We’ll make a plan.”

Once they got back to Ryan’s apartment, they pulled up a map of the US, paper and a pen, and hunched over the kitchen table to hash the details out. Ryan wanted to see New York, Shane wanted to see Las Vegas. Ryan wanted to visit The Grand Canyon, Shane wanted to see Mount Rushmore. Neither wanted to particularly see the White House – mostly, the thought left a sour taste in their mouths.

They wrote down where to go and what to see in a neat list, and then moved on to making separate lists for their on-the-road mixtapes.

“How about we both write our own ideal lists, and then we mash them together?” Ryan suggested, after they failed to yet again agree on what to put on the list, Ultravox or Simple Minds.

Shane shot him a look. “Ten songs, each?”

Ryan pursed his lips. “Fine,” he said. “Ten.”

A few days later, when Ryan was sitting in his bedroom recording the songs for the tape, he couldn’t help but smile. Life, he thought, had a funny way of working out. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve all that he had, but he was grateful nonetheless. He hit play on American Heartbeat, and his smile widened.

Shane started hanging out around his apartment more and more. Ryan didn’t mind. He also didn’t mind when he forgot his shirts in Ryan’s drawers, or when he left his toothbrush behind when he dashed out for work in the morning, or when he walked through the door one day and announced, _I’m home_.

Most of all, Ryan didn’t mind that one.

**“Drive”, or, September, 1984**

The car engine hummed pleasantly as they passed the _You’re Leaving California_ sign. It felt like shedding an old skin – a pathway into something else, something new, something exciting. Something just for the two of them.

The Cars’ Drive was blasting from the cassette player – Shane’s choice. Ryan thought it was alright.

Shane rolled his window done and stuck his elbow out. The wind was ruffling his hair; Ryan saw from the corner of his eye, and if he turned his head to look, just a little, he also saw the way Shane was smiling like he didn’t have a single care in the world.

Maybe he didn’t. At least not in that moment.

The sun was just beginning to rise against the horizon as they drove towards it, down the highway. Orange and red and yellow against the dark blue sky. It coloured the clouds in honey, as well, like something out of a painting.

“Wish we had a camera,” Shane said, staring at the same view as Ryan.

“A picture wouldn’t capture that beauty,” Ryan said. “Not in a million years. But I do think we should buy a disposable camera from somewhere. There’s only so many times you see the Grand Canyon in your life, I think I’d like some evidence of us having actually been there.”

“Definitely,” Shane agreed. “And then we’ll take embarrassing pictures of each other for future blackmail use, right?”

Ryan nodded solemnly. “Oh, for sure.”

They both broke into laughter at the same time, grinning at each other. Despite the sleep dragging at the corners of Shane’s eyes, he was beautiful with the morning light shining down on him.

Before Ryan could say anything, Shane turned his head to get a better look at Ryan, and smiled at him lopsidedly. “This is nice, isn’t it?”?

“It is,” Ryan agreed, trying to keep his focus on the road. He sneaked a glance at Shane, who was still staring at him. “What?”

Shane’s smile deepened. “Nothing. Just thought you looked nice, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Ryan didn’t bother trying to fight off the smile blooming on his face. “You do, too. More than nice. Gorgeous.”

“You’re more so.”

“No, you are.”

“No, you—”

They continued down the road, their laughter and the music filling the air around them.


End file.
